


Waxing and Waning

by MrMissMrsRandom



Category: Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Chulainn has a low opinion of himself, Discussing warrior codes, F/M, Gen, Isaach characters from Gen 1 bond, Nightmares, Training, character backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 14:04:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14895965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrMissMrsRandom/pseuds/MrMissMrsRandom
Summary: The final years of Chulainn's existence give him some perspective on what it means to live a life of honor.For royaltyjunk's birthday and Day 1 of Jugdral Week. Prompt: Hero.





	Waxing and Waning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [royaltyjunk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/royaltyjunk/gifts).



Ayra was younger than him by a few years, but even at fourteen, the Princess of Isaach had been Chulainn’s equal with a blade. Every time he fell on his back, he attempted to do the same. It was exhilarating after having bested his teachers years ago. He couldn’t expect his younger brother to be on his level for a decade yet, still clutching at their mother’s skirts. She was a distant cousin of King Mannan, and Sophara inherited Od’s holy blood through hers and father’s union, though the kingdom had been a vassal state to the main branch for decades.   
  
Despite how childish it sounded, Chulainn was tempted to ask his father to find a way for the princess to stay more than the handful of weeks they were given to spend together. As they sparred, he felt a rush of excitement at the chance of having an actual rival.   
  
“Are you going to continue our match, or just keep gawking up at the sky?” Her voice called him out of his reverie. Ayra had returned with water skins clutched in one hand and a practice sword in the other.   
  
“Apologies, your highness.” Chulainn took one of the water skins from her hand and took a swig. During this time of the year, the desert winds shifted more towards Sophara. It was never as bad as Rivough, but it could turn the usually pleasant breezes hot and dry. “Just taking a break to watch the clouds.”  
  
“Hmph, is that so?” Her eyes narrowed before also turning to look up. Sure enough, the clouds had thinned and swirled, creating interesting patterns in the sky. “What’s so interesting about that?”  
  
Chulainn shrugged. “Despite your drive to convince me otherwise, not everything in life is about training.”   
  
Her eyes narrowed at the implied insult and took a swig from her. “That’s because you’re the heir.”   
  
Chulainn had not expected such a direct response. “What do you mean by that?”   
  
“You’re like my brother,” The princess replied, her voice firm and resolute. “You have to be a warrior, but also a leader. You have to think about things besides your skill with a blade. My sister has already taken the other duty expected of royalty by marrying to strengthen ties within Isaach,” She then raised the practice sword high, and for a moment, Chulainn could have sworn he saw green sparks.   
  
Chulainn remained silent, watching as the princess took a few practice swings with her blade. He could only imagine how deadly she would be already on a battlefield.   
  
“There’s nothing left for me but to be the hero of our kingdom.” Ayra turned back to Chulainn with a determined smirk. “And it’s especially the case now since my nephew was born! He’s too young to hold even a spoon properly, so I need to take care of him.”  
  
Chulainn let out a boisterous laugh, something uncharacteristic of him. “The young prince certainly has a fearsome protector. Then with what time we have left, I’ll teach you the skills I learned from spending some time at the fighting pits.”   
  
The mention of the place made the princess’s eyes widen, but then she scowled. “You… you go to the fighting pits?”  
  
Ah, disdain, but also surprise. Expected from an honorable warrior. “I go under a false name if you’re worried about me dirtying my family’s reputation. Besides, it's a useful experience. It gives me an idea of how people fight without honor. When you follow the path of the blade, you might have to fight people like that one day.”  
  
Ayra nodded her head, taking on the traditional stance before a match. Chulainn, rather than mirroring it, began to look for a weak point and then made his attack.  
  
After hours more of Ayra cursing up a storm getting bruised by underhanded whacks and kicks, Chulainn felt she was on the path to understanding how dishonorable a battle could be, regardless of how skillful one was.   
  
However, later that night at dinner, Chulainn’s father kept scowling over his wine glass at King Mananan, who remained stone-faced and silent. Chulainn’s mother attempted to start a conversation but then sighed, bunching her napkin in her hands. Chulainn looked over at Ayra, probably with the same expression of confusion across her face.   
  
King Mananan and his entourage left Sophara the next morning, including Ayra. Despite their short time together, Chulainn felt a stab of loss.   
  
(~)  
  
A few months after King Mananan’s abrupt departure, Chulainn awoke to the acrid scent of smoke and the sound of screams.   
  
He grabbed his sword from its resting place and grabbed the door handle only to find it boiling. In his rush, he kicked at the door once, twice, thrice, until the wood finally gave under the pressure and the flames that spilled into Sophara castle. Covering his mouth with a cloth, he attempted to run towards his parent's rooms, only to find them blocked by an inferno.   
  
Chulainn cried out for his parents, but the fire deafened his voice. He turned away to try and find a route to the nursery as the hall filled with bright, deadly light. He came across servants attempting to bring water to fight the blaze, but most were merely running or aiding burned victims. As he ran the smoke stung his eyes, but he always kept one hand on his blade. Someone must have set this fire, and if he found them, he would run them through.   
  
But as he made his way through the halls, the flames became harder to traverse. Vengeance was replaced with fear as sweat clung to his night clothes, the nagging knowledge that the nursery, while on a lower level, had no windows. No way to let the smoke out. No way to escape.   
  
The nursery door was sealed shut. Smoke billowed under the crack. Chulainn hacked at the wood but somehow withstood the shock. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t break through. A voice whispered in his head asking him _are you sure you want to see? Do you want to see the burnt toys the singed hair the tiny bones-_  
  
(~)  
  
“Holyn, get up.”  
  
Holyn opened his eyes, finding one of the arena handlers hovering over his cot. Holyn had forgotten the man’s actual name. Not the most pleasant face to wake up to, but based on the nightmare he just had he could have done worse. He sat up, lifting a hand to gesture for the handler to move back before he stood up and walked over to a basin of water he kept in his room and splashing his face.   
  
“What do you need me for?”   
  
“Boss says to come back to the main field with me. Some fresh meat from that Grannvale troop came to fight for extra coin, and they’re wailing on the usual stock.” The handler pointed towards the door into his bedroom, marked with stabs from his blade. Nightmares from an already dead life. “We need you to show off that blade work of yours, so we don’t lose all our bets.”   
  
Holyn replied that he’d be there shortly, no need for the handler to mind him like some infant. The handler grimaced and said he’d be waiting outside.   
  
Holyn took the time to fully dunk his head in the water, holding it under for a little over a minute before coming up to gasp for air. It was the shock he needed to get his mind out of the hellscape that was Chulainn of Sophara and into the very present life of Holyn the gladiator. The swordsman that earned his coin by fighting for the pleasure of others, and sometimes for the benefit of some local nobility if the price was right.   
  
Holyn finished washing up, then changed into a tight, sleeveless tunic and trousers. He refrained from wearing any Isaachsian style clothes. With his hair color, Holyn blended into the Agustrian populace just fine, only slight traces of accent remained that would give away his true homeland to a trained ear. He finished up with putting on some light armor and stepping into his worn leather boots before taking his sword from its resting place by the door-- sheathed thankfully, so that meant he hadn’t used it in the night-- and walked out the door.   
  
Later, as he walked through the arena gates to face his opponent, he had expected some Grannvalian lordling to be waiting for him. Possibly on horseback, because the crowds apparently loved violence done to animals as much as humans, but instead there was a lone swordswoman, dressed in purple robes. Holyn felt his heart stutter in his chest, yet he did not halt his stride. It wasn’t possible. The Isaach royal family had been killed or was close to being so if Grannvale had anything to say about it after the shitshow at Darna.   
  
As he drew closer, though, the woman made the graceful, practiced movement of unsheathing her sword, the iron shining in the light that descended into the arena. When she crouched into the readied stance that was the foundation of Od’s sword arts, Holyn knew it could be none else.   
  
Still, Holyn unsheathed his sword, letting the leather fall into the dirt. His signature style since spectators began to whisper how he could defeat an opponent before it even touched the ground. Holyn knew such feats would be impossible here.   
  
After that, their blades danced. It took two, maybe three minutes of dodging and darting blows before the telltale sparks of green came off Ayra’s sword as she readied that final attack. Even if he had tapped into his skill, he could not escape the flurry of sword strikes that slashed his arms and legs, making his sword fall.   
  
The crowd was deafening in their response as Holyn, the champion for months was brought to his knees. Clerics spilled out from the sidelines to treat his injuries, but once healed enough to walk he waved them off, walking towards Ayra’s side of the arena as she was also being checked over by injuries. When she caught sight of him, however, her face remained impassive. Holyn smirked. Of course, she wouldn’t remember him. After all, the years of arena fighting had made Holyn entirely different from Prince Chulainn. Save for hair color and eyes there was hardly any similarity between them. That could work to his advantage.   
  
(~)  
  
By the end of that day, he joined Sigurd’s army. It didn’t pay nearly as well as the arena, but the chance meeting Ayra again was too much of a coincidence to pass up. If Holyn was religious, he could have claimed it had been a sign from the gods. But he wasn’t, so he just passed it off as being pretty damned lucky.  
  
In the Agustrian campaign, he liked his new comrades enough so far, but he usually stuck to himself. Holyn could tell there were already little cliques and relationships developing among the groups, and he didn’t want to get involved in any potential drama. It was still a war after all, and Holyn had already learned not to get too attached. Ayra would be his primary focus, his one last effort to protect the remnants of Od’s direct line. Once things were eventually figured out, he could go back to his regular life, no problem.   
  
One day during a stroll around the castle, he came across Ayra giving Prince Shanan sword lessons. Holyn leaned against a vacant collum and watched the two run through the usual footwork and drills that were ingrained in Holyn's- or, Chulainn's- repertoire during his youth.   
  
Eventually, Ayra noticed she and her nephew had a spectator. “Care to join us instead of skulking around?”  
  
Shanan turned, his face- still thin from previous months of hardship- brightened. “You’re the guy Aunt Ayra fought against in the arena! Like, the way you put your sword over your head was so awesome in the fight, but my Aunt Ayra’s style of sword fighting is still better!"   
  
Holyn nearly had to laugh at how blunt the kid was. A faint memory of his- Chulainn’s- little brother came back to him. He wondered if he would have been the same, or more reserved?   
  
“Shanan, you shouldn’t say things like that.” Ayra objected, but Holyn saw a glint of pride in her eyes.   
  
“Your aunt has the upper hand in style,” Holyn said as he walked out, picking up a spare practice sword from the bag. “But has she shown you the more underhanded moves yet?”  
  
“Underhanded?”   
  
“Of course. Not every opponent you face is going to fight honorably.”   
  
Something like recognition flashed across Ayra’s face, but it passed just as fast. “I’ll be in charge of his training, thank you.”  
  
“But I want to learn!”   
  
“Not until you’ve mastered the basics.” Ayra replied curtly, her eyes bore into Holyn. “however... if you would like to participate in some drill practice, I won’t object.”  
  
Holyn grinned. “Much obliged. I could use a sparring partner.”   
  
“Yeah!” Shanan cheered.   
  
“Like I said, only drills!”

  
(~)   
  
Over a year passed, and though Holyn resisted the change as much as he could, he had come to honestly care for everyone in this ragtag army of princes and paupers. Even when as the days passed it seemed like they would fall apart.   
  
Grannvale had declared Sigurd, a traitor, and by dumb luck, Silesse had sheltered their forces. Nothing in the snow-bound mountains was familiar to Holyn, but the chill seemed to drive people together all the same.   
  
Holyn took a moment to look down at his gloved hand, able to make out the outline of his wedding ring.   
  
“Uncle Holyn, come on!”   
  
“Right, sorry Shanan.” Holyn’s gaze shifted back to his pupil.   
  
Holyn was training with Shanan in the more sheltered courtyard of the castle. He had begun to teach the prince the basics of fighting dirty, though they still only sparred with practice swords. Oifey of Chalphy had also started to sit in on their lessons, despite Sigurd refusing to put him on the front lines back in Agustria.   
  
Shanan made a right feint that Holyn had been unable to react to, causing him to slip and get a back covered in mud.   
  
“Excellent,” Holyn said. “You’ll be a pro in no time.”   
  
Shanan beamed. “You think I’ll ever be able to use Luna?”   
  
“I don’t think that’s something that's taught, Shanan,” Holyn admitted. True, there were rumors that Od had power granted to him from the moon and the stars, but such a combination had not been passed on to his descendants.   
  
“Oh.” Shanan’s face fell, but then quickly brightened. “Then Aunt Ayra will just have to teach me how to activate Astra, then.”   
  
“That she will.” Holyn agreed. “She may not always say it, but I know she’s proud of how far you’ve come in your training.”   
  
Shanan looked down at his practice sword. “That’s good. I want… I want to become stronger.”   
  
Holyn rested a hand on Shanan’s shoulder. “What happened to Lady Deirdre was not your fault, Shanan.”   
  
“But I… I should have been stronger then. If I wasn’t so little I could have helped her-”   
  
“There is no use thinking about what ‘could have’ been done,” Holyn said. “Lady Deirdre entrusted Seliph to your care, and you kept that oath. As a warrior, you have nothing to be ashamed of here. All we can do is hope that she is unharmed.”   
  
Shanan bit his lip but nodded. “Still, I still need to get stronger. I want to be as strong as Aunt Ayra someday.”   
  
“Hah, that might be a bit of a challenge.” Holyn teased. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a person as strong or as strong-willed as your aunt.”   
  
“Still!” Shanan countered, before having another one of his serious looks. Like that, he looked strikingly like Ayra. “Is Aunt Ayra your hero too?”   
  
Holyn thought about it, over the time now spent together, and the handful of weeks when he was still Chulainn. How much he had changed, and she as well, but he had never stopped admiring her drive.   
  
“I suppose she is.” Holyn smiled at Shanan, before putting a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell her I said that though.”   
  
“Why not?”   
  
Holyn sighed. “Sometimes, it’s hard for adults to express how they feel in words. As warriors, me and Ayra, well…”   
  
“There you two are!” Ayra exclaimed, dressed in a fur-trimmed cape that somewhat covered her thickening middle. “You’ll miss lunch if you don’t hurry up, and don’t come whining to me if you do.”   
  
She was in the last third of her pregnancy now and based on Edain’s check-ups, and how big she was getting, there was a high chance that Ayra would birth twins. Such a thought filled Holyn with both excitement and dread.   
  
“Coming!” Shanan called back, running forward and giving his aunt a quick peck on the cheek before sprinting ahead. Holyn cringed as the boy nearly slipped on the stones with his muddied feet, but was able to catch himself.   
  
Holyn decided to make a slower approach towards Ayra, kissing the other cheek. Ayra attempted to hug him but made a face of disgust as her hands came back coated with mud.   
  
“Shanan bested me in a match.” Was Holyn’s answered. Ayra wiped her hands on Holyn’s sleeves, and Holyn considered how much he truly loved her that he didn’t complain.   
  
“He’s growing into a capable warrior,” Ayra said, her mouth softening into something more thoughtful. “I’m sure Marricle would be proud.”   
  
“And it’s all thanks to you,” Holyn replied.   
  
Ayra smiled. “I think you deserve some credit. So, Holyn?”   
  
“Yes?”   
  
Ayra looked at him in the eyes, then kissed his forehead. They were the same height, but her position on the stone and he on the earth gave her the edge.   
  
“Thank you for coming into our lives.”   
  
Holyn too a deep inhale, then sighed. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”   
  
(~)   
  
There were times he wished, beyond anything, that Ayra was not so honorable. When Ayra entered Holyn’s tent after they had decided she would go to Isaach with the children, Holyn wanted to scream.   
  
“What about Shanan? What about Larcei and Ulster?” Holyn said their names while gripping her shoulders tightly. He would never shake her, but it aggravated him how much she refused to budge. Her brave sword, the gift he had given her back in Agustria no longer at her side.   
  
“I can’t abandon you or Sigurd to an unknowable fate,” Ayra replied simply. “I owe a debt to Sigurd, and I cannot leave with the children not knowing what awaits on the horizon.”   
  
“You have a duty to Shanan and Isaach first! You told me that yourself!”   
  
Ayra’s eyes widened, and Holyn’s grip loosened when he realized what he had just said. Ayra had never told Holyn this, but she had told Chulainn.   
  
“... Holyn, no, you’re…”   
  
“Don’t say it.” Holyn spat out. “That’s not me anymore. I’m Holyn, the gladiator, the man who married a princess of Isaach out of a selfish desire, a fleeting dream. It doesn’t matter whether I live or die. It doesn’t- it doesn’t...”   
  
Ayra pulled him into an embrace, and it was only when her robes started to dampen that Holyn realized he was crying.   
  
“I’m sorry I didn’t realize sooner.” Ayra murmured, a hand running gently through his hair, speaking to him like she would a scared child. “...Chulainn. We will reclaim Isaach for Shanan together. I swear this to you.”   
  
Holyn said nothing, merely gripped Ayra’s waist and buried his head into her shoulder further. Ayra believed her words. He knew she did, but all he could think about was Shanan, Larcei and Ulster’s faces, and how neither of them would see them grown.   
  
(~)   
  
Everything was on fire. The scent of burning flesh wafted throughout the air. Just like before. No matter how hard Holyn tried to escape it, perhaps he had always been destined to die by flames. A dishonorable death for a dishonorable man who didn’t have the decency to burn with his family years ago and would abandon a new one to an unknown fate.   
  
But then he heard a voice, forceful and clear even amongst the carnage. With what little strength he had, he turned his head from the dirt to watch Ayra’s figure shift, her sword sheath dropping to the ground. Her hair, long and black, haloed around her with all the glory of a king’s crown.   
  
“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!” Ayra roared out, and her hair tossed back as she charged towards Bellhalla, towards Arvis as the ashes of Sigurd and all their friends wafted among the flames.   
  
Even at the end, she was always a hero. More than he could ever be. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted Shanan to mention learning Luna to call forward to Mareeta's capability to learn Luna and Astra. Maybe that means she's the reincarnation of Od?


End file.
